


the nicest apples are sour

by malkinisms (hannibalisms)



Category: Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-28 21:44:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/997100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannibalisms/pseuds/malkinisms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He often thought back, in his tenure outside the United States following his flight, on Special Agent Clarice Starling.  He often wondered if she was still a rube with little taste, though he doubts that now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the nicest apples are sour

**Author's Note:**

> A szép almákban is vannak savanyuk.  
> the nicest apples are sour.
> 
> also [here on tumblr](http://hannibalisms.tumblr.com/post/54068279402/a-szep-almakban-is-vannak-savanyuk).

He often thought back, in his tenure outside the United States following his flight, on Special Agent Clarice Starling.  He often wondered if she was still a rube with little taste, though he doubts that now.

She had risen fast enough through the Academy and onto her career, which he had predicted.  He had  _given_  it to her, after all.

There would  _be_  no Clarice Starling without Hannibal Lecter.

He lingers, occasionally, on the FBI website, always on computers with firewalls, good ones, and never more than once or twice a year.  

He knows the limits of his freedom.  He knows what he must do to cover what little tracks he could leave, from place to place for not too long.

Travelling to Hungary had been a mistake, however; it had brought back memories of Mischa, stinking of her final days before he managed to run, run away, run all the way to Johns Hopkins.

It had almost turned the trip sour, but he had managed to save it with a veritable feast of a well-built young man that had been  _quite_  rude at the best delicatessen that he could find; he had made a  _delightful[téliszalámi](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Winter_salami)_ , and was served to a couple that had been quite delightful and intelligent, and they very much appreciate the [ _hortobágyi palacsinta_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hortob%C3%A1gyi_palacsinta) that he made.

He leaves soon after, though, because although the man will not be missed it would not do to dwell.  Sadly, he was unable to leave him as a warning to others like him, but all the same - it was satisfying.

He makes his way to places he had been before, revisiting old places and eating up the history of the world that he had been kept from.  He ends up in Florence; well, not so much  _ends up in_  as  _has planned to go there._

He likes Florence, likes Italy in general.  Rome was once glorious, but now is polluted with filth and disorder, plebes who do not understand the beauty and splendor around them.  They go to where they  _think_  they should go, ignoring what hidden wonders remain.

Florence is beautiful in the spring, as things bloom and grow.  Most would think that Hannibal would prefer the autumn, when things wither and die, but the  _Giardini di Boboli_  are too glorious to pass up.  The blossom in splendor, and Hannibal remembers Mischa playing in the gardens of his ancestors, and they remind him of her.

Some things are better left forgotten, but sometimes they are pleasing for him to remember.

Where his home-cum-orphanage tastes like bitter American coffee, Mischa in the flowers tastes like the sweetest [ _Poire belle Hélène_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poire_belle_H%C3%A9l%C3%A8ne), pears perfectly poached, with the best [ _violettes de Toulouse_](http://ciaochowlinda.blogspot.com/2010/04/how-to-make-candied-violets.html).

He wonders what Clarice would taste like. A [ _marron glacé_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marron_glac%C3%A9), perhaps.

It would be rude to presume, however.

Sometimes, when he cannot think of Clarice, the last moment that he saw her in Memphis, the last time they spoke as she graduated from the Academy, he thinks of William Graham instead.

He regrets what he had to do to William; they had gotten on so well, and William had trusted him.  But William had gotten close, too close.  Hannibal took a risk, and that time it had backfired; he had not counted on dear William’s constitution and dedication to his task.

On occasion he called up the boat dock just to hear William’s voice, deep and slurred over time, riddled with alcohol, feigning need for a engine repair.

It does nothing for him, not any more.

William, he thinks, could have been his protege, given enough time.  William would have been able to be changed, to find his true self, be able to see his full potential.  But William was too tied to the FBI, too ignorant of his empathetic gifts and too afraid of them.

That leaves him with Clarice ( _il miele dentro la leonessa_ , his mind tells him) but it is not something that disturbs or bothers him.

Quite the contrary, rather.  Clarice was, and always shall be, intriguing to him.  Perhaps it is because, like dear William, she was honest with her fear, honest with  _him_ , as it were - the Plum Island debacle notwithstanding, but it did allow him his freedom, after all.

Sitting at Alla Vecchia Bettola, he thinks that perhaps it is time to find something in Florence to pass the time, at least until he is able to visit his dear Clarice.


End file.
